Page 20 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Grant

Twelve years ago

Sloane’s rolling backpack is loud against the gravel of our uncle’s driveway. The sun is bright in my eyes as it emerges from a flimsy cloud. The air is kind of wet, like the daytime sun hasn’t had a chance to dry it out this early in the morning.

“Come on, Grant,” my Uncle David drawls. “Don’t be keepin’ these people waitin’.”

I didn’t notice when the wheels of Sloane’s bag stopped rattling, but when I slide into the back row of the Oldsmobile parked in front of the doublewide, I see her buckled in, sketching. Her knees bob up and down, making it hard to keep her lines smooth.

When she feels me watching, she glances up, her eyes a little glassy, so I smile.

I try to make it reassuring, and I think it works because her legs calms down.

My nerves, on the other hand, are threatening to bring up my nonexistent breakfast. I feel my stomach acids churn, nothing to absorb them, and I contemplate asking my uncle to stop for food .

Mrs. Chapwick, our last foster placement, would’ve.

She was nice. But there were six of us, and she didn’t really want or need two more kids, and Sloane and I fought hard to be a package deal.

We were the latest addition to the well oiled machine of their mixed family so we were the first out.

Back with our uncle, who begrudgingly houses us between placements.

I should be grateful—I don’t know where kids end up when they have no one.

We have someone. Even if every time we see him, he’s three bottles deep and looks at Sloane a little too long.

I pull a breath deep through my nose and it quells my nausea a little bit.

The social worker who came by a few days ago barely told us anything about these people.

I’m guessing she told my uncle more than she told us, because he at least knows where we’re going.

Sloane was so sure she was coming to bring us back to our mom, to put us on a plane back to Chicago.

I had to remind her that mom’s probably not even there anymore. She wasn’t the last time we saw her.

Our mom’s kind of a nomad—no roots anywhere, it seems like. Her brother lives down in Smyrna, Georgia, but she found out she was pregnant with us when she was an artist in residence in Chicago. Twins weren’t part of her plan, though, and the only family we know is our uncle so…here we are.

I think if she knew how bad the system was, she would’ve figured something else out.

Something that would let her find her footing and keep a roof over our head.

But we would never tell her, never make her put her life on pause for us.

Sloane thinks it’s just a matter of time before we can stay with her again, something we haven’t done since we were three.

I told her maybe, but I hope she’s right .

Not thirty minutes later, we’re pulling down the most manicured street I’ve ever seen in my life.

Grass clippings still line the sidewalks, like they just finished cutting it.

Huge magnolia trees blossom, the colors so vibrant and movie-like.

The houses are bigger than I’ve ever seen, and glossy, flashy cars sit in each driveway.

I feel my nerves kick back up and check on Sloane.

She’s asleep, clutching her sketching pad to her chest like a stuffy.

“Y’all be good for these folks. It’s not gettin’ better than this.

” All I can see in the rearview mirror are my uncle’s eyes, narrowing on the two of us.

The car comes to a halt in front of the largest house on the street, I think.

Our social worker stands beside one of the many pillars of the wrap around porch, a clipboard in her hand, excitement coating her face.

Beside her is a petite blonde woman, probably in her early forties.

She’s smiling, but I can tell she’s nervous, like me.

But the man next to her—he’s not. He stands there, stoic like a statue, anticipating our arrival with careful, calm restraint.

I gently shake Sloane awake and she flinches, her eyes shooting wide open. When she looks around and realizes where we are, her panic only somewhat subsides.

“We’re here, Sloane.” My smile is tight this time, as is hers in return, because we’ve done this before.

How many times have we been shuttled, either by our uncle or a social worker, to a “home”?

We get the whole spiel: This family is so excited to meet you.

They love that you’re twins! Be good—they just might adopt you.

It never makes us feel the way I think they imagine it does.

Getting adopted isn’t the dream; getting back to Mom is.

Everyone speaks to us like she’s part of the past, like she’s a story and not a real person.

But our mom is real, and she sees us when she can, and I think Sloane is right that eventually, when she figures her stuff out, she’s coming for us.

When she comes to visit, which admittedly isn’t often, but when she does, the reminder is clear: it’s the three of us. It’s me and Sloane and her.

“Ms. Schaffer,” our uncle greets the social worker. “Mr. and Mrs. F?—”

“Just Evangeline—Evie. And Beau,” the blonde woman interjects, her smile a little too eager. The corners of her eyes crease as she does it, and I feel bad that she wants to impress us at all.

I feel a nudge on my shoulder and know I should probably speak up. God knows Sloane won’t.

“Hi,” I say, my voice sounding smaller than usual. “I’m Grant. This is Sloane.”

Sloane’s gaze flits over the couple and she manages a cordial smile.

Better than nothing, I guess. The friendly face, Evie, extends a hand instead of offering the hug she clearly wants to give, and I take it, giving my firmest shake.

Sloane might not care about making a good impression, but she doesn’t consider that the good will of others is all we have until Mom comes back.

Unless we want to sleep on the pull out in the double-wide until we turn eighteen. And then what?

“We’re so happy to see you,” Evie says. I swear I see her eyes dampen, but it’s so bright out.

“Evie and Beau are going to be your new foster placement,” Ms. Schaffer tells us, pointedly.

“If you need anything, you can call the number I gave you. But we—” she pauses, glancing around at the adults, “—we all think you are going to like it here.” She’s beaming, like this moment is career defining or something, and I decide to believe her.

Ms. Schaffer’s been the best social worker we’ve been assigned, and I believe her when she says she cares.

Sloane's derisive snort cuts into the Hallmark Movie moment, though, and my lips press into a firm line, bracing for what’ll come out of her mouth.

“Because you just know us so well,” she says, eye roll included.

Our uncle roughly clasps her arm without thinking, saying low enough for only us to hear, “Stop bein’ so damn precocious. I’m not takin’ you?—”

Evie’s soft laughter filters the rest of his statement, and the chime of it makes him drop Sloane’s arm. Lips pursed, Sloane looks straight ahead, zoning out.

“I hope we do get to know both of y'all. Really well. We’ve always wanted kids. Right, Beau?”

Beau nods to himself, considering his next words carefully by the look of it.

“I don’t presume to know you, Sloane.” Sloane’s eyes dart to his and stay there.

“But we sure would like to give you a home. For however long you want it.” Her breathing goes steady, her grip on the sketch pad loosening.

“And maybe we’ll get to know you along the way. ”

Sloane’s shrug is as much as he's going to get, and he knows it. When he turns to me, hand outstretched, I stand up a little taller.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, son,” he says. His voice reminds me of a bale of hay rolling down a hill—it kind of lulls you, kind of makes you want to listen real close. His smile isn’t as friendly as Evie’s, but for some reason that feels more genuine right now.

I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me.

I give him a quick nod of acknowledgement, and a pleased smirk appears. I didn’t know I cared, but I think I just won his approval.

“We’ll have Anders grab your bags,” Evie offers, before Ms. Schaffer whispers something. I hear “only” and “nothing else” and know she’s saving us the embarrassment.

“ Anders ?” Sloane whispers, cracking her first giggle of the day.

Finally . The laugh lets me know we can do this. Stick this out, until.